“Take her away—with her cursed bloodline and the bastard she’s carrying in that belly. She is not useful here. At least she can be useful to you. Let her join you and beg for alms. She is as useless as her late mother.”
That was Amara’s voice—cold, sharp, merciless.
She threw a small bundle of clothes at the girl’s feet and pointed toward the road, where a ragged man stood waiting.
“Take her away. She does not belong here anymore. And thank God your father is not around to protect you this time.”
Amaka never imagined this day would come.
She never imagined she would be thrown out of her father’s house like trash and handed to a homeless man in a mockery of marriage. She was only thirteen. Eight months pregnant. Terrified. Humiliated. Neighbors stood outside their homes watching. A few came closer—not to help, but to laugh.
No one said, “This is wrong.”
No one stopped Amara.
At that moment, Amaka believed her life was over.
But she did not know her story was only beginning.
Eight months earlier, the night everything changed, the village had already gone dark when Amara shook her awake.
“Go and buy matches,” she ordered.
Amaka blinked in confusion. “Now? It’s too late.”
Amara slapped her so hard her ears rang.
“Go.”
Frightened, Amaka took the money and stepped out into the night. A few minutes from the house, she felt a hand clamp over her mouth. Another arm dragged her into the darkness.
She did not remember much after that.
Only pain.
Only fear.
Only waking the next morning in the bush with torn clothes, aching all over, and knowing something terrible had been done to her.
Crying, she staggered home.
The moment Amara saw her, she slapped her again.
“You shameless child! I sent you on an errand and you ran off with a man? Now you come back with torn clothes and fake tears?”
Amaka tried to explain, but Amara beat her before she could say a word. Her father, Mr. Andrew, was far away in the north working on a construction project. He would not be home for months. There was no one to protect her.
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